


Idiot

by The_Cool_Aunt



Series: DISPATCH BOX [12]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Canon Compliant, Drug Use, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Overdosing, Sickfic, Victorian, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-15 16:11:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5792110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Cool_Aunt/pseuds/The_Cool_Aunt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Introduction: For amidst the maelstrom my mad friend was prone on the floor, surrounded by what was possibly an entire issue of the Times, shredded into long strips and covering the carpet in front of the fireplace in a layer an inch thick.</p>
<p>In another piece tucked into his dispatch box, Doctor Watson describes the effects of Sherlock Holmes’ drug habit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Idiot

I will never forget that horrid day. I had been out tending to a neighbour—she had been quite ill for some time, and by the time I had been summoned and gone to see her, she was lost in horrible fever dreams. I needed to have her husband restrain her (gently) as I checked her temperature and pulse. There are times when being a doctor is so very frustrating. At that point there was little I could do. I treated her as I was able for the fever and then sat by her bed for hours as she ranted and tossed and turned. Under my direction, her husband—his name is Robert and hers is Amelia—bathed her with cool cloths, which did provide some relief.  
  
I stayed with them the entire night and into the next day and was greatly relieved when she finally turned a corner at approximately noon. Her fever began to abate and the first coherent words she uttered in hours— “I’m thirsty,”—were like music to our ears.  
  
A short time later I determined that with rest and care she would recover and took my leave.  
  
I was exhausted, and in that state of unreality that is associated with being awake for over twenty-four hours. It had been shortly after lunch that I had been summoned, and here it was, shortly after lunchtime again. I trudged homeward, looking forward to a nice meal and then a long nap.  
  
I wondered what Sherlock had been doing to occupy himself in my absence. He had been in—to be perfectly honest—a horrid mood, and I had actually been the smallest bit relieved to have been called away. I would not have been surprised to discover him equally relieved. When he was in one of those moods, he knew that he was making life uncomfortable for everyone around him—not to mention himself—but that did little to nothing in terms of bringing him around to a more reasonable frame of mind.  
  
The same was true for his blackest moods—what he had fleetingly referred to as being “in the dumps” at our first meeting. The man can be a master of understatement. But this particular episode had not consisted of him lying on the sofa for days on end, not speaking or eating. No, this was two full days of agitation—a flurry of distracted detective, unable to settle down to anything. Not experiment nor amusing articles in the agony columns nor even his beloved music had been making him happy, and I had had enough.  
  
I did wonder fleetingly to what I would return—mania or brooding or (hopefully) delightful calm. The best would be, of course, employed—and at that point I would have soldiered on even as giddy with lack of sleep as I was to accompany him on a case just to know that he was engaged and well.  
  
I nearly stumbled up the familiar steps to our rooms, so exhausted was I. At that point, the need for sleep was predominant over that of eating, I realised. I would sleep first and then have a good, hearty tea.  
  
Or not, I realised with a sinking heart as I swung the door to our sitting room open.  
  
It was a disaster. Papers—pieces cut from newspapers, mostly—seemed to cover every surface—every surface that was not occupied by a beaker or flask or his violin case or—what was that? What on earth what was he doing with a stack of books of fairy tales? A dripping pot of glue adorned a pile of what looked like receipts—I glimpsed the name of his tailor on the top one.  
  
“Oh, Sherlock,” I groaned. “Really?”  
  
For amidst the maelstrom my mad friend was prone on the floor, surrounded by what was possibly an entire issue of the _Times,_ shredded into long strips and covering the carpet in front of the fireplace in a layer an inch thick. He was wearing a (surprisingly for him) decent amount of clothing—shirt and trousers and even stockings had made an appearance, topped, of course, by one of his ubiquitous dressing gowns (the mouse-coloured one, as it happened). He was flat out on his back on the carpet, his hands pressed together and ensconced under his chin. His eyes were shut.  
  
He opened them, however, and turned his head sharply upon my remark. He scowled at me. “John!” he admonished—and I was a bit alarmed to note that his voice cracked as if he had not spoken or had anything to drink in some time. “You’re interrupting. Go away.”  
  
I was just too tired to argue. I went away—to my bedroom, where I gratefully removed my soiled clothing and, pulling a clean and lovely-smelling nightshirt over my head, crawled into my bed with a deep sigh and fell asleep nearly instantly.  
  
*  
  
Despite my lack of sleep the prior night, I found that I could not stay down longer than a few hours. It was now late afternoon and apparently hunger and thirst had woken me. I rose groggily and re-dressed myself in comfortable at-home clothing, intent on asking Mrs Hudson for a hearty tea. I stumbled into the sitting room and rang the bell.  
  
I was a bit surprised to find a Sherlock-shaped void in the litter of newspaper strips but no Sherlock. I glanced over—no, his boots and coat and hat were still by the door, so he had not gone out. I glanced behind myself. Ah. His bedroom door was shut. Perhaps he had, as I had, succumbed to the need for sleep. I would just go take a look—  
  
Mrs Hudson popped in. “Yes, Doctor?” she inquired.  
  
“Mrs Hudson, I am positively famished. Could you possibly—?”  
  
“A nice hearty tea? I have some nice ham and cheese and few other things.”  
  
“That would be lovely.”  
  
“Will Mr Holmes be joining you?”  
  
I thought about it. Probably not, but it would not hurt to be prepared.  
  
“He might,” I replied.  
  
“Very well, sir,” she nodded and turned to head back downstairs.  
  
“Mrs Hudson…” I was surprised to hear my own voice.  
  
She stopped and turned back. “Yes, Doctor?”  
  
“Was he… did he…?” I found that I was at a loss for appropriate words.  
  
“Was he a terror whilst you were away?” she answered a bit cheekily.  
  
“Yes,” I admitted a bit sheepishly.  
  
“Yes, he was,” she replied candidly. “He was playing his violin in the middle of the night, wouldn’t touch a bit of food—not even tea—and he seemed very put out by absolutely everything. The mail was five minutes late and he shouted at me—as if it had anything to do with me.”  
  
“Oh, I am sorry!” I was horrified.  
  
“Oh, it has nothing to do with you, Doctor,” she said soothingly, not looking the least bit concerned. “He does just get into his moods and there is nothing we can do but wait.” She took a good look around the sitting room. “I will have to give this place a good tidying at some point, but not whilst he’s—”  
  
She stopped abruptly as Sherlock burst into the room.  
  
“Would you be quiet out here!” he shouted. “Your incessant prattle is driving me mad!”  
  
With barely a batting of an eye, our landlady turned and hastily took her leave, her anger betraying itself in the way that she managed to slam the door to the corridor.  
  
“Sherlock!” I admonished. “That was insufferably rude.”  
  
“So what?” he shot back at me. His intense eyes swept me and the room and for a moment that distracted him. “You need more sleep,” he informed me abruptly, “but I suppose I am happy that your patient has taken a turn for the better.”  
  
At that moment, I knew that there was truly nothing I could do or say (back in those days, anyway) that would not irritate him. I decided to keep to the facts. “Yes, I am very tired. Mrs Finney’s fever broke late this morning and she will eventually recover completely. I have only had a few hours’ sleep since leaving her side. I am going to have something to eat and then return to bed. Would you care to join me for a light meal?”  
  
My resolutely matter-of-fact attitude seemed to calm him a bit; that and affirming that his deduction had been correct.  
  
“I do not know if I wish to eat anything, but I will join you at the table and have some tea, if that is acceptable,” he murmured a bit contritely. I suspect that he was reviewing his behaviour of the past few days and beginning to regret if nothing else his most recent outburst.  
  
“Of course it is acceptable.” I looked over at the table. It was covered in the same detritus as the rest of the room. “Perhaps we could clear some space…”  
  
“Oh. Oh! Yes. Instantly.” Yes, he was feeling contrite; he only looked and sounded and moved that way when he suddenly realised that he had once again left the room a shambles (or possibly set it on fire; anything was possible with my mad man). He rushed over to the table and clumsily began to clear it.  
  
Clumsily.  
  
Yes, that was the word. I made a point of joining him as calmly as I could and covertly observing his movements as we, bit by bit, revealed the surface of our dining table. Engrossed in his project (and dealing with the pot of glue, which proved a bit difficult to remove from the table despite teetering on top of the papers), he did not immediately realise that I was watching him carefully.  
  
His hands were shaking. It took him two tries just to get a good grasp on the glue pot, and he watched in some confusion as a pile of newspapers slid off the table, a victim of his clumsy touch.  
  
I watched in some trepidation as the confusion turned quite alarmingly quickly into something like panic.  
  
No. It was not like panic.  
  
It was panic.  
  
He relinquished his tentative hold on the glue pot (with some difficulty; it would have been amusing had the circumstances been different) and instantly fell to his knees, scrabbling about, gathering the fallen papers. “Mrs Hudson will have my head if I don’t… if this…”  
  
“It’s all right. Just some newspapers,” I offered.  
  
“No. It’s not. It’s… there’s more. Such a mess. She doesn’t like it when I make such a mess. She will be angry and she will want me to leave and I have no idea where I would go and I have tried living with Mycroft but it was a disaster but where else who else no one else will have me where will you go?”  
  
“Sherlock?” I interjected quietly, tossing the pile of books I had gathered up from the table onto the floor in front of a bookcase—I really did not care at that moment. I knelt down in front of him and gently raised his head with a finger under his chin.  
  
His eyes looked like twin wells—black and bottomless and somewhat terrifying.  
  
I became instantly aware of his breathing—shallow and erratic—a few gasps followed by a pause; a deep breath and a gasp.  
  
I moved my fingers to his neck and felt for his pulse. God, his heart was racing.  
  
And the heat emanating off him was almost visible.  
  
There was something terribly, terribly wrong.  
  
“Sherlock?” I said again, softly, as I pried the newspapers from his grasp. “I think that you are unwell.”  
  
He thrust his arms out and attempted to push me away, but only succeeded in pushing himself back, tumbling to the floor. “Get away from me!” he shouted. “You want her to toss me out. You want to be here by yourself and for me to be… to not… to not be here.”  
  
His breathing was causing terrible problems with his speech.  
  
It was not his thinking that was that unclear.  
  
Was it?  
  
He attempted to rise but the trembling in his hands had now overtaken his entire body.  
  
“Where are you going?” I demanded, trying to get him to at least sit back down.  
  
“Have to… it’s so hot. Feel… have to…”  
  
“What do you have to do?”  
  
He shut his eyes briefly and attempted to get his breathing under control. “Sick,” he stated flatly.  
  
Ah. All right. Even at this early stage in our friendship, I had already become accustomed to Sherlock’s rather temperamental stomach. “Come with me,” I commanded, standing up straight and pulling him up rather forcibly after me. Without a pause I swung him in the direction of his room and quite literally pushed him towards it. I would brook no resistance.  
  
Within a few moments I had him seated on his bed and the pot in his lap, and my efficacy had been justified within seconds. He was rather miserably sick. I stroked his hair and murmured assurances while he retched, more alarmed with the heat coming off his body than anything.  
  
Having not had anything to eat in some time, he was unable to bring up anything but bile, and finally he seemed to be done. I took the pot gently from him.  
  
“All right for a bit?” I inquired. He did not seem to hear me, however, and glanced all around the room. He was trembling from head to toe and I could feel the heat emanating from him with my hand several inches away. He pulled at his dressing gown in some distress.  
  
“You are overheated,” I commented, attempting to keep my voice level. “Let me remove your clothing and make you comfortable.”  
  
He stared at me, apparently not comprehending my words, but he also did not move. I covered the pot with a towel and began to remove his clothing.  
  
Thankfully he was not entirely dressed; it was a matter of just a few moments to have his dressing gown, shirt, trousers, and stockings off, until he was wearing just his vest and drawers. I pulled the bedclothes down (I had him seated at the foot of the bed) and patted the pillow enticingly.  
  
“Come lie down. I will not put a cover over you—but I would like it if you would please lie down for a bit.”  
  
He stared at me uncomprehendingly.  
  
Sherlock Holmes—the smartest man I knew (except for his brother)—could apparently not understand the simplest of requests. This frightened me more than anything I had witnessed—and I was beginning to realise what was happening to him.  
  
I put my hands on his shoulders and pushed him back until he was prone. Touching his skin was like touching the skin of a duck roasting on a spit.  
  
“Will you stay there for a moment? I promise that I will return instantly.” I looked deeply into his eyes as I said this, and somehow—I do not know if it was my voice or my familiar visage or that he simply did not know how else to respond—he nodded.  
  
I quite literally ran down the stairs and positively terrified Mrs Hudson—who was loading the tea tray—when I burst into the kitchen.  
  
“What is it?” she burst out.  
  
“Mr Holmes is very ill,” I spat out. “He needs a cold bath immediately.”  
  
She did not even answer me; she just dropped the plate she was holding onto the tray and turned back to her range.  
  
*  
  
Thankfully what I wanted for him was a cold bath—tepid, to be more accurate. There was, of course, the cold water tap in the bath-room, and between Mrs Hudson and myself we brought up enough hot water to take the frigid edge off it.  
  
Sherlock remained in bed during these preparations. I looked in on him a few times, and he would utter the most nonsensical and rather terrifying sentences—things to do with oysters and playing cards.  
  
“Thank you, Mrs Hudson,” I finally said. “I will bathe him.”  
  
She nodded and headed back down the stairs, her face drawn with worry.  
  
*  
  
The bath was not anything I cared to repeat, although I, unfortunately, have been forced to do so several times. Sherlock fought me every step of the way—including at one point claiming that I was trying to drown him and adding (in retrospect rather hilariously) that Mrs Hudson would not help me bury his body anywhere.  
  
I am fairly sure there were moments when she would supply the spades herself.  
  
I do know that the shock of the cold water on his overheated system was horrible, and he was entirely justified in objecting, but I very firmly held him down by his shoulders in the water. I looked into his eyes at one point whilst I struggled to keep him still, and the panic was palpable. He had no idea why I was doing what I was doing. I tried to reassure him.  
  
“You are very ill with a high fever,” I told him, firmly. “I need to cool you down. Just a few moments and then you can go back to bed.”  
  
“I… no… my doctor…” he managed.  
  
“Sherlock, I am not only your doctor but your best friend. Do you trust me?” I cupped some of the cold water in one hand and poured it gently down his neck and back.  
  
“Only you, John.”  
  
We had finally had enough. I pulled him up and out, wrapped him in towels, and led him back to his room. I had not bothered to removed his vest and drawers before, so now I slid them off as he shivered. At least now it was a genuine shiver and not the shaking I had observed before. I pulled a clean nightshirt over his head and directed him to his bed.  
  
“Lie down,” I instructed, and was grateful when he did so. He seemed to be tiring. The manic look in his eyes was fading. “Do you think you can sleep for a bit?” He clutched at me rather desperately but also nodded. “I will be right in the next room,” I assured him. “Please try to sleep.”  
  
I finally left him—and I found it surprisingly difficult to do. I needed sustenance and rest and possibly a change of lodgings, but I also needed to know that his breathing was more steady and he did not feel ill any longer and that the terrible heat that threatened to burn his brilliant mind along with his body had abated. I dragged myself out to the sitting room, leaving the door to his room open so I could hear any signs of distress. I rang the bell before essentially collapsing into my chair.  
  
Mrs Hudson was clearly waiting to hear from me and was up the stairs in moments.  
  
“Doctor?” she said with trepidation.  
  
“He is cooled down and is sleeping,” I informed her. It took a great effort to form the words.  
  
“Oh, thank the Lord. What happened?”  
  
“He was taken with a sudden illness but he will recover quickly.” I had no qualms about lying to her.  
  
“Are you all right?” She looked at me keenly.  
  
“Yes, but I am exhausted and hungry. Could you possibly…”  
  
“Oh, yes! Right away, sir!” She bustled back down the stairs.  
  
Our landlady did not need to know about the damned hypodermic syringe on his dressing table, nor the small glass vial that sat next to it. Empty.  
  
I had almost become accustomed to his three-injection-a-day habit. All right, yes, at that point I had—and it was true that he only truly indulged when there was no puzzle to tantalize his brilliant mind. Sometimes, unfortunately, there was a period of several months of this behaviour, as I have publicly documented in my stories.  
  
But rarely—so rarely—did Sherlock inject such a high level of that damned cocaine that he made himself so terribly ill, and in this case I knew that it had been my absence that had been the catalyst. Not the entire cause—I will not accept the responsibility for that—but for that final, horrific injection that could—and someday might—extinguish that brilliant life all together.  
  
I was not entirely aware then that I was in love with him, but now I can look back and know that everything—his reaction to my absence; my reaction to his morbid habit—was formed from our love for one another.  
  
I am so fortunate now; he rarely uses the horrid stuff, and he no longer fights when I attempt to care for him.  
  
But I do wish he would stop altogether. I never wish to see him as he was that night again.  
  
[As there is with most of Doctor Watson’s private musings, there is a codicil in Sherlock’s distinct hand: _I do not intend to cause you anguish, John, but I admit that of all the things in my life that torment me, that damned seven percent solution of cocaine is one of the worst. I am so terribly sorry for frightening you and Mrs Hudson. Please forgive me._  
  
_I do love you so very much._ ]  
  
  
  



End file.
